


Words, Words, Words

by KareliaSweet



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-04-22
Packaged: 2018-05-26 15:23:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6245074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KareliaSweet/pseuds/KareliaSweet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of prompts based on some beautiful words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cheiloproclitic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cheiloproclitic - Being attracted to someone’s lips. 
> 
> Notes/Warnings:  
> 1) Contains dubious kissing consent (featuring S1 encephalitis!Will)  
> 2) I drank half a bottle of wine when I wrote this  
> 2) I may have sobered up by the end  
> 3) I just wrote 2 twice so I guess I didn’t

It’s not like he’s even attracted to men.

It’s just that, well, they’re fascinating.

They’re like petals opening, or the curled pages of a book when you set it down wrong.

They’re angular, yet ripe. Soft but sharp. Gentle and menacing at once.

“Is there something wrong, Will?”

And by God are they mesmerizing when they move.

Will shakes his head, ducks his chin to his chest. Hopes maybe a stray wisp of hair covers the wandering blush.

“No,” he replies.

_Well that’s a fucking lie._

Everything is wrong. His life is slowly and subtly spinning off its axis, he’s waking up on his roof, he has night terrors that send him sweating through the sheets and he can’t stop thinking about his fucking psychiatrist’s _mouth_.

He wonders what that mouth would feel like crushed against his own.

_No. Bad Graham, very bad._

“You seem restless.” Hannibal’s lips draw in a concerned line and somehow that is even worse.

“No,” he says again, “I’m fine.”

Hannibal smiles. Jesus Christ.

“Distracted, then? I don’t mean to be keeping you.”

 _Oh, please keep me, please do_.

Will wipes a curl of sweat from his brow.

“You’re not, are we – am I – did I go over our time?”

Hannibal nods genteelly.

“Just slightly, but that does not mean we cannot still talk.”

Will stands, looks studiously at Hannibal’s… anything else.

“I’m sorry,” he stammers, “I didn’t intend to-“

“Will, sit.” Hannibal raises a hand. Will does not think about the way that mouth wraps deliciously around his name.

“Our relationship extends beyond appointments. First and foremost, I am your friend, Will. If something is still troubling you, please, speak your mind.”

_I’ve been thinking about what it would be like to have your lips wrapped around my cock and I’ve never even so much as looked at another man like that before does that mean I’m latently gay or just slowly losing my mind._

“Nothing’s troubling me.”

Still, Will sits.

“I just,” he sighs, throws his head back, tugs wild fingers through his hair, “I’m having trouble keeping my grip on reality.”

Hannibal frowns, which in turn makes him pout a little, and Will feels another bead of sweat trickle down his temple.

“How so?”

_Well, for starters, you’re sucking my cock and then I blink and you’re sitting back in that chair looking like you own the goddamn world._

“Dreams that are hard to separate from,” Will offers vaguely, “nightmares too, I guess.”

Hannibal leans forward in his chair, steeples his hands and presses his index figures to his mouth.

“Hmm,” he says thoughtfully.

 _You are a grown fuckin man, Will Graham, you will not get an erection right now oh you asshole you have one already don’t you_.

Will crosses his legs. Hannibal sniffs once, leans back.

“Do any of these dreams – or nightmares – carry a sexual overtone?”

_Overtone undertone yes you name it all the fucking tones are there._

“What do you mean, Doctor?”

Hannibal braces a hand on his thigh, cocks his head.

“I don’t mean to be indelicate, Will –”

 _Oh, shit_.

“but if I am not mistaken,”

_you are_

“you have been staring”

_please don’t_

“at my mouth”

_it’s fucking beautiful_

“for the entire duration of our appointment.”

_no I haven’t_

“Yes, I have.”

 _Shit_.

Hannibal smiles subtly.

“This is completely normal, Will.”

Will bristles. “I’m not gay.”

“I never said you were. I am, however, a source of stability in your life. It is natural for you – at your current state of vulnerability – to associate sexually with someone who has an element of authority. I am neither offended nor troubled by this.”

Will opens his mouth to speak, makes a couple of meaningless sounds, closes it quickly again.

“Tell me, Will,” Hannibal says clinically, “would it be helpful or a hindrance if I were to kiss you now?”

_Helpful helpful God really helpful_

“Dr. Lecter, that’s hardly –”

“You already know my methods are unorthodox. I hypothesize that experiencing it might either give you comfort or, more likely, shock your system enough to help you realize that this attraction is simply a projection of your need for security and nothing sexual.”

_Trust me, it’s sexual._

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, doctor.” Will is running hot and cold all at once. He needs to leave and he needs to leave now. He closes his eyes, swallows, steps into the stream, tries to wash away his fevered arousal. When he looks over his shoulder, Hannibal is beside him, knee deep in the water, mouth parted and wet.

“I have to go!”

He stands so quickly he almost falls, runs the back of his hand across his messy forehead, grabs his bag and heads for the door.

His hand barely touches the handle when Hannibal is suddenly behind him, arms on either side, caging him in. His chest is pressed to Will’s back, breath hot on his neck.

“Very well,” he murmurs, “I doubt you’ll remember this anyway.”

Will turns under his arms. “Wha-?”

But his question is never fully realized, because Hannibal’s mouth is on his, firm and insistent and fucking glorious and all of his fantasies suddenly pale in comparison. They cease to exist under the reality that is Hannibal Lecter’s persuading kiss.

He sucks at Will’s bottom lip, scraping unusually sharp teeth against it, then his tongue is in Will’s mouth with such certainty that Will is sure that it was always supposed to be there. He surrenders wholeheartedly, releasing a moan from deep in his throat that Hannibal devours whole. His fingers are twisting in Hannibal’s hair, Hannibal’s hands have skidded down the door to grip at a hip and bicep, pinning him into place. He sighs into Will’s mouth as he kisses him, and Will feels himself stumbling from a high precipice, falling down, down, down…

He wake on Hannibal’s couch with a start, clammy and tucked under a warm blanket he doesn’t recognize. Hannibal kneels beside him, tucks a glass of water under his chin and urges him to drink. He downs it in great gulps, Hannibal’s hand at the back of his head, guiding him, always guiding him.

“What happened?” he asks. His voice cracks and his throat is dry. He takes another sip of water.

Hannibal’s eyes shine with concern. His lips are glossy.

“You passed out, I’m afraid. Shortly after our session was over.”

Will frowns, squeezes his eyes shut. “I did?”

“Yes, you mentioned having trouble keeping grip on reality and then,” he sweeps his arm in a gesture encompassing their current arrangement, “well, here we are.”

Will pulls himself upright. “I’m so sorry.”

Hannibal shakes his head. “It’s no trouble,” he says assuredly, “I am your friend, Will.”

An echo of something warm shivers down Will’s spine.

“Yes,” he smiles weakly, “thank you.”

He moves to stand, draws the blanket around his shoulders.

“May I borrow this?”

Hannibal nods. “Of course.”

“Thanks.”

He picks up his bag, lets Hannibal help him and walk him to the door.

“Please get home safely,” he says, and Will can tell that he really means it.

“Thank you,” he says again, “you’re a good-“

 _Doctor? Friend? Advisor? Counselor? No there’s another word what was the word it’s on the tip of my tongue_ …

Hannibal just shakes his head. “You’re more than welcome.”

He turns the light off, closes the door behind them and locks up. They walk outside, the night air brisk against Will’s face. He feels very awake and he doesn’t quite like it.

“Well,” he says feebly, “good night.”

“Good night, Will.”

He gets into his car, flips on his headlights and pulls out of the parking lot. He looks in his rear view mirror as he drives away and startles for a moment, shakes his head.

Must have been a trick of the light, a vague hallucination, his mind doing that thing that it does again but -

He could have sworn – _no_ – it couldn’t be.

And yet, burned into his eyelids the entire drive home is the very singular image of – of –

Hannibal Lecter, smiling sweetly, and blowing him a kiss.


	2. Lalochezia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lalochezia - The use of abusive language to relieve stress or ease pain.
> 
> Set during season 2.

“And how are you feeling today, Will?”  
  
Will scowled from the chair opposite. “Angry.”  
  
Hannibal tilted his chin thoughtfully. “I wonder if the anger you hold towards me has a deeper root.”  
  
“What does that mean?”  
  
“Anger is not always anger.”  
  
“Jesus Christ,” Will sighed in frustration, palms rasping across his face. “What the fuck is it then?”  
  
Hannibal did not elucidate. The slight arch of his eyebrow was all he needed to say.  
  
Will leapt from his chair, his fury roiling in him.  
  
“Do you want me to tell you that I want to fuck you? Because I’m not going to do that.”  
  
Hannibal looked at him coolly, unperturbed.  
  
“I believe you just did.”  
  
Will’s lip curled in a sneer. “Fuck you.”  
  
“Yes, we’ve established that.”  
  
“You,” Will said, “have destroyed my fucking life. You have torn apart everything that I love, everything that I could possibly care for with so little fucking regard I might as well have been a goddamn toy. Your fucking plaything. Wind me up and see what happens.”  
  
Will’s voice was rising, his chest heaving. Thunder was in his eyes.  
  
“You have turned everything to shit, ripped everything down with your fucking claws. I am rubble, I am goddamn desolate. I can’t – I don’t want to fuck you.”  
  
Hannibal didn’t even raise an eyebrow. “And yet,” he replied, “you do.”  
  
Will was panting, wild and savage. “No,” he said, then as if torn from him, “ _Yes_.” He could taste his own shame on the back of his tongue. "I do.“  
  
Hannibal’s mouth curved into an impossibly gentle smile. Will scowled.  
  
“You’re a fucking asshole.”  
  
Hannibal said nothing.  
  
“A piece of shit,” Will continued, “a goddamn blight to my existence. I fucking hate you.”  
  
His voice began to break, cracking along the seams of his temper. His ribs felt too big for his chest.  
  
“I fucking hate you,” Will said again, and the last word wrenched halfway into a sob.  
  
He sank to his knees, shoulders trembling.  
  
“I fu–” And then Hannibal’s hands were in his hair, fingers sliding through and gripping tight. Will’s arms coiled around Hannibal’s waist and he shook. Neither moved, kept within the odd fierceness of their embrace. Will’s fingers dug into the small of Hannibal’s back, hard enough to leave welts. Both secretly hoped he would draw blood.  
  
Moments drew into long minutes, stretched taut with silence. Eventually, Will’s shaking began to subside. Hannibal relaxed his grip just slightly, drawing Will’s head back to regard him. Will looked up with red-rimmed eyes. Hannibal’s gaze was disquietingly tender.  
  
“Do you feel better?” Hannibal asked.  
  
Will sniffed once, mindless of the wetness on his face.  
  
“Yes,” he replied quietly.  
  
Hannibal released him. For a moment Will stayed. An absurd part of him wanted to bury his face in Hannibal’s stomach and demand comfort, to sink into a warped version of intimacy between them. He knew Hannibal would let him.  
Will stood. His eyes stayed trained to the floor.  
  
Hannibal extended his hand.  
  
“Same time next week?”  
  
Will looked at the hand before him, the elegant fingers, the neatly pressed cuffs of his shirt. A shadowed corner of his mind traveled upward, imagining the length of his arms beneath, muscles flexing as they pushed themselves up. Will flattening him back down, teeth bared and feral. Flashes of sweat and skin and unholy sound.  
  
Will took his hand. He looked up. He knew with certainty that Hannibal wanted to kiss him. He knew with dread that he wanted to let him.  
  
“Will?”  
  
His mouth looked like sin the way it wrapped around his name. Will’s eyes drifted closed. In the dark he saw Beverly’s face, floating sightless down a murky river.  
  
His eyes snapped open. Hannibal didn’t seem to have moved, but he could feel the heat of his breath where it hadn’t been before.  
  
“Next week,” Will said. His voice sounded jagged and broken. He felt himself fraying along the edges.  
  
He released Hannibal’s hand, wincing at the sudden cold that came with the parting. Hannibal took a small step back, the temperature dropping further. They said nothing. Will turned and let his feet carry him to the door. He fumbled with the handle, his fingers frozen stiff.  
  
“You are not a toy,” Hannibal’s baritone reverberated to the base of his spine. “You are so much more.”  
  
The words sounded like melted chocolate and Will wanted to be smothered and drowned in them. He inhaled sharply, held it in until it hurt, then let go.  
  
“Fuck you, Hannibal.”  
  
Will stepped through the door and did not look like back.


	3. Duende

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Duende - Unusual power to attract or charm.
> 
> More Season 2 wistful angst.

“Stay a while longer.”  
  
Shadows have cast their fingers deep into the night, the air is brittle with the snap of chill. Outside the door is a world of winter and a long drive through it.  
  
Inside is whiskey, and a steady fire, and good company, even if he doesn’t trust it.  
  
Perhaps it’s good because he doesn’t trust it.  
  
The last of the lomo saltado sits warm in his belly. Will is pleasantly, sleepily full, plied with enough liquour that tarrying doesn’t seem like the worst of ideas. He thinks he could stay the night, if he asks.  
  
He is not going to ask.  
  
Hannibal is watching him from over the rim of his wine glass, the last of its dregs sitting like drops of blood from a fairytale. He is smiling with only his eyes. Will has never known anyone else who could do this.  
  
Faintly, he wonders if he’s ever actually seen Hannibal’s teeth.  
  
The tumbler lifts in Will’s hand before he knows it, and he knocks his wrist back and takes another drink, hot amber trickling down his throat and sitting at the base of his spine. Hannibal just watches. He doesn’t repeat his request, just waits patiently for a response, legs demurely crossed just so with nary a tuck in the seam.  
  
His eyes are the ocean floor. Strange, prehistoric creatures swim behind his gaze, jaws snapping just out of view.  
  
Will feels warm. Everything inside him is warm.  
  
And outside it is so, so cold.

Hannibal sips the last drops, sets the glass down by the stem. One eyebrow twitches minutely. Will feels himself grow boneless, drifting down into the silt of the sea bed.  
  
“Yes,” he says, “I’ll stay.”  
  
He takes another drink. “For a while.”  
  
Hannibal smiles, this time with teeth. They look exactly like Will had pictured, and for a moment he thinks _this is it, this is when I am consumed_ , and he closes his eyes for the devouring.  
  
It doesn’t come.  
  
“You look tired,” Hannibal says, but what he means is _I wish to exhaust you_.  
  
Will shrugs. “I am, a little,” he replies, but what is unsaid is _I wish I could let you_.  
  
Hannibal stands. “I can make you a bed.”  
  
“No,” Will says, sharper than he intends to. He rolls his neck, tries to uncoil the sudden tension that has wound slick through his veins.  
  
“Couch is fine.”  
  
And it is. A fine leather couch, soft as calfskin, equally plush and firm in all the right places. Hannibal draws him a blanket, coaxes with one beckoning hand for Will to stand.  
  
Will stares at his fingers, elegant and tapered like candles with just as much power to burn. He finds himself drawn forward, rising without volition, snake-charmed. Hannibal sits at the far end of the couch, blanket tucked in his fists, and sets a downy pillow over his thighs.  
  
“Come,” Hannibal says, and means exactly that.  
  
Will follows, shucked of shoes, shirt unbuttoned, and descends into the comfort of the sofa. With little effort to guide him, his head lands in Hannibal’s lap. The blanket drifts over him like snowfall, but still he is warm.  
  
“Is this –” _right? appropriate? safe?_ “–comfortable?” Will’s voice is blurry, thick as chocolate and just as rich.  
  
Hannibal fits the blanket around his shoulders. “I think that it is for you to decide.”  
  
Will is wrapped so tightly he knows he should feel trapped, and yet the feeling twists slippery out of his grasp. Besides, he thinks, his blood is so hot now that if Hannibal were to spill it he would only scald himself.  
  
“Are you comfortable, Will?”  
  
Will nods, sleepy-soft, and then Hannibal’s fingers are in his hair.  
  
They comb through gently like they are searching for secrets, but they find none. Each snarl he finds is efficiently and painlessly untangled until the curls straighten and spill back in on themselves with every glide of Hannibal’s hand.  
  
Will is only half awake when he hears himself hum contentedly, and then a voice that cannot be his says, “harder.”  
  
Hannibal obliges. His nails scratch against Will’s scalp, uprooting the deepest melancholy from his brain and scraping it out, scraping all of it out until there is nothing in his mind except the knowledge of Hannibal’s hand. His fingers grow firmer, massaging at Will’s temples, coaxing his thoughts free. At this, Will props up the last of his bastions, and only a few come untied . Hannibal catches each one.  
  
One thought that says, _I have never been so content_.  
  
Another that says, _I wish I could stay_.  
  
A third, stubborn, that has to be tugged loose. It says, _but I cannot_.  
  
Hannibal’s hand stills, the ends of Will’s hair slip through his fingers.  
  
“Why?” he asks.  
  
Heard aloud, the question sounds like the cracking of a heart not used to such fullness. The silence that follows as Hannibal waits for his answer presses into him bluntly, the dull edge of a blade.  
  
“Why?” he asks again, this time quiet, tender.  
  
He dares to look down, at the face of his defeat and mercy both.  
  
Will is already asleep.  
  
Hannibal stays awhile longer.


	4. Mamihlapinatapei

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mamihlapinatapei - The look between two people in which each loves the other but is too afraid to make the first move.

Moonlight paints wide stripes across the porch. The house behind it is still. Will stands under the night air, leaning against a beam with a glass of whiskey in hand. His shirt is unbuttoned just enough to vent free the tension of the evening, the fine porcelain of his collarbone pale and almost silver. He exhales once, long, the mist of his breath pluming in the cold.

Beside him sits Hannibal, elegantly serene in a rickety wooden chair. In one hand, he cups a snifter of brandy. The other is softly palming the outline of Will’s shadow spilled across the railing.

Will tilts his glass in a lazy circle, watching the liquid slosh and then settle. He cranes his head to look at the darkness inside.

“When I told you I prepared my dogs’ food, this was not what I meant.”

Hannibal sips and looks up. Will’s eyes jar him with the warmth tucked behind them.

“Also, I think I should ask you for my keys back.”

Hannibal nods. “You think you should. But you won’t.”

His fingers trace the shadow painting the bend of Will’s elbow. Will leans his head back as though the touch filters through to him.

“No,” Will replies, “I won’t.”

His eyes close for the briefest of seconds before he shakes his head and snaps them open.

“But we’re going to have to move Mason. I won’t have his blood warping my floorboards.”

“In good time, Will. Allow yourself a moment for a drink between friends.”

He gestures to Will’s glass, half empty after a second pour. Will runs the pad of his finger over the rim of the glass. Hannibal inclines his chin just slightly.

“Friends,” Will says, tasting the word. Hannibal watches him roll his tongue over the foreign consonants.

“Is the word so distasteful to you?”

Hannibal is stroking the shadow cast by Will’s waist, smoothing along the imagined line of his hip. Will watches the display, heavy-lidded.

“No,” Will says honestly, lifting his tumbler to take another drink, “just ill-fitting.”

He rests the swell of his lip against the glass. Hannibal’s mouth parts.

“How would you prefer we fit?” Hannibal asks.

Their eyes meet through the curve and swoop of the shadows, fix and hold. Will releases the veil from his gaze and his eyes blaze bright. For a moment too long, neither breathe.

Hannibal’s thumb dips in the darkness, over hidden places he has yet to touch. Will’s fingers slip in his grip on the glass and he makes a low sound in his throat; a quick thing, cut off with a swallow before it can take flight.

“My preferences have… evolved.” Will drains the rest of his glass, sets it down on the railing. His shadow disrupts and reforms. The bookmark of Hannibal’s fingers hold their place.

“You have shared everything else thus far,” Hannibal’s voice is barely above a whisper. He can hear the roar of Will’s blood in his veins. “Would you care to share the nature of this evolution?”

A cloud strays from its path, and for a moment they are bathed in moonlight. Hannibal’s eyes are naked with need. His hand is not on shadow anymore.

Will takes a step closer, licks his lips. His hand hovers trembling in a halo over Hannibal’s hair, the side of his face.

“Will,” Hannibal says, and it is the most honest thing he has spoken.

Another cloud passes and the moon is shrouded again, night spilling over both their features and hiding the parts both had tried to see.

From within the house, a dog whines. Will’s mouth curves in dismay and he steps away. The veil slips back over his eyes.

“You’ve made my dogs sick.”

Hannibal sighs, doesn’t hide the little shard of want that digs in. “I assure you, the fault was entirely Mason’s.”

“Mm.” Will flexes his fingers, unspent tension singing through them. His eyes are lost in the dark. Hannibal sets his half-empty glass next to Will’s and stands.

Will cocks an eyebrow. “That’s good brandy,” he protests.

“Yes,” Hannibal answers, “many good things require savouring over time.”

He reaches forward for the door, just barely touching the rise of Will’s knuckle with his pinky. Beneath him, Will shivers. Then the door opens beneath him and he is lost again, swallowed into the belly of the house.

“Come,” Will calls from the dark, “we have work to do.”


	5. Apodyopsis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apodyopis - The act of mentally undressing someone.

 

He’s never seen Will smile like that before.  
  
It’s open, and honest, but Hannibal can see the cracks between. Will before him, beautiful and bloodied and broken and still somehow fixed, poised on the edge of a fissure ready to be split again.  
  
When Hannibal says he would remember this time, he means it more than anything he’s said with a blade.  
  
He wants to strip Will naked, there in the gallery, and sketch his form onto the Primavera with broad strokes, to daub a coarse brush with the scarlet smudged at his forehead and make him immortal.  
  
Will tells him of the ghosts he’s been chasing, and Hannibal feels himself falling terribly in love again. So hard he has worked to rip free from this web, and he has only found himself further tangled. There is no _not loving_ Will Graham, not while the two of them still breathe and walk this earth.  
  
Not after, either.  
  
He thinks, perhaps, he may sketch him this evening, in the glow of firelight. Every curve and secret part of him, bared. No more lies between them. Perhaps Will might even let him touch, just there, at the bend of his hip, in the dip of shadow that lingers. Hannibal has seen all of it in his mind’s eye. He knows that to behold it would blind him. He will probably weep.  
  
Who better to wipe away his tears than the man that bleeds them for him.  
  
They stand, and they walk. Hannibal watches him with softness. He does not take his hand, because that would be a childish thing, but the itch that skirts the edges of his palm does not lay up.  
  
He glances at Will from the corner of his eye, imagines that slash of skin down his throat, from jaw to collarbone, imagines it milky and pale before him, traveling further down the supple bend of his elbow, the litheness of his hand. His hand, with elegant, bewitching fingers. Deadly fingers.  
  
And then Hannibal sees the blade palmed beneath, and in his mind the knife slips between his ribs as easy as a kiss. It presses there and holds, staunching the seeping flow of blood beneath. A thousand sketches crumble into brittle dust, paper licked with flame and curled black. He bleeds ash.  
  
The knife disappears from view and they keep walking. Will catches his eye. He smiles.  
  
He’s never seen Will smile like that before.  
  
-x-  
  
He’s never seen Will look so peaceful.  
  
Lying still in his arms, Hannibal carries him like a bride over frozen earth. The imagery is not lost on him, but it feels important. They have passed through this latest horror unscathed, beyond the scars still forming. Perhaps the next threshold can be crossed in peace together.  
  
He carries Will to his home, or rather to the boards and soil that Will claims to give that name to. Hannibal is his home. He must know this by now. He lays him on the bed and watches him breathe through sweat-stained clothes and peeling bandages.  
  
He sets about changing him into clean garments with perfunctory care. In the boxed corner of his mind, he imagines a different path, where he is removing Will’s shirt and trousers under muted twilight, fully wakened. He imagines the quiet moans, the hitched breathing as each button is slowly, slyly undone. In a world untouched by marrings and betrayal, they soothe each other with the kiss of fingertips.  
  
Perhaps, someday. Perhaps, even soon. Maybe Will will touch, the bend of his mouth to Hannibal’s temple, brushing to his cheek. Palms together, fingers enmeshed, a vow and benediction.  
  
But now, Hannibal tends. He fixes and mends, acts he is wholly unused to when it comes to Will Graham. He sits quietly by his bedside, watches him sleep. He wonders if the dreams there have allowed him entry.  
  
Will wakes. They talk of teacups and palaces. It is calm. Hannibal scents change on the near horizon. He thinks of what could be.  
  
And then Will performs the amputation. Severs them so clean and neat that even the faintest tendrils of hope are pulled from the root.  
  
Will tells Hannibal he will not be missed. He says goodbye. Hannibal stands at the door and listens mutely to his banishment.  
  
He’s never seen Will look so peaceful.  
  
-x-  
  
He’s never seen anything so beautiful.  
  
Will, savage, blood dripping from his maw like oil, his teeth and jaw stained. He is stunning. Their eyes meet, and all the years of unspoken words unlock and tumble free, a deafening current of honesty.  
  
Hannibal hears everything.  
  
They strike as one, tearing and slashing, leaving unfixable wounds in their wake. Gouts of blood that bathe their faces and the dead stone beneath.  
  
The dragon is felled between them, vanquished. Will pants harshly, bleeding freely, full of life. Hannibal wants to tear him from his clothes, reveal the scars underneath and paint them with the spoils of their kill.  
  
He wants to make love to Will there, now, in the blood illumined by the silver-spilt moon. Wants to bruise and bite and claim and keep. He knows now that Will would bite back, would grab and rip and mark him with a brand that burns deeper than skin.  
  
It is a feral thought, nonsensical. He knows that. They need to gather themselves, knit together what they can, and leave. There is a world awaiting them now, full of all the terrible things they can do together. World enough and time to touch with only truth between them.   
  
Will reaches for his hand. Hannibal begins to hope, like a newborn colt on unsteady legs. He feels raw and uncomfortably tender, the last of his barriers flayed. Will has stunned him beyond reason.  
  
When Hannibal says this is all he has ever wanted for them both, they are the truest words he has ever spoken.  
  
Will tells him it is beautiful, and Hannibal’s heart splits open. If he dies, here and now, this will be his marriage bed. Will takes him into his arms and holds him close. Their blood mixes together. They breathe as one. Will lets himself be seen, Hannibal lets himself… be.  
  
And then Will pulls them down, together they fall. They fly from the cliff as one and for a moment Hannibal believes that Will has given them wings. In the flutter of air that whips around them he sees the truth, and does not feel betrayed.  
  
Because Will is still holding him, crying, his eyes wide and fixed on his in perfect wonder.  
  
He’s never seen anything so beautiful.


	6. Sphallolalia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sphallolalia - Flirtatious talk that leads nowhere.

“You’re sick.”

Will glances up at the reflection in the bathroom mirror. A dollop of foam drips from the razor in his hand.

“I beg your pardon?”

Hannibal leans forward just a hair, behind Will but not touching. He inhales, loudly.

Will drops the razor.

“No, no, you’re not doing that, fucking - stop that right now.”

Hannibal blinks slowly. Will grits his teeth.

“I feel fine.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“ _Hannibal_.”

“Will.”

He picks the razor back up, pumps a little more shaving cream into his hands. Hannibal pulls down a hand towel, folds it neatly, drapes it over the edge of the sink. For a moment, they are quiet. Hannibal does not look at him, but he stands close, breathing.

Will rolls his neck, counts to three.

“Out,” he instructs.

Hannibal nods graciously, turns to leave. He stops in the doorway, looks over his shoulder.

“Influenza,” he says quietly, “nothing serious. I can go to the pharmacy and get you -”

“Hannibal,” he barks, “I am  _not sick!_ ”

-x-

“Hannibal,” -

_sniff_

\- “I’m sick.”

“I know.”

Will stands at the entrance to the kitchen, pallid and small underneath the giant blanket wrapped around him. His eyes are bleary, nose red-rimmed and chapped. To Hannibal, he is nothing less that what he always is: beautiful.

“Go back to bed.” he says gently, “the soup is almost done.”

Will coughs into the crook of his elbow.

“Your soup is terrible.”

Hannibal doesn’t look up from the pot he is stirring. “I disagree,” he says, “all the soups I have made for you have been excellent. The fact that you decided to be rude about them is not my fault.”

Will pouts and sniffles.

Hannibal stops stirring. “What?”

“My head hurts.”

A heretofore unknown fact about Will Graham: with someone to properly tend to him, he loves being doted on.

An unsurprising fact about Hannibal Lecter: he loves doting on Will Graham.

He sets the spoon down on the counter, crosses to Will and takes him gently by the shoulders.

“It does you no good to stand barefoot in the kitchen,” he murmurs, “go back to bed, I will take care of you.”

Will draws the blanket tighter around his chest. “‘kay.”

Hannibal sets the back of his hand to Will’s forehead, tuts.

“You’re running hot.”

Will, clearly feverish, gives him a teasing smirk. “Aren’t I always?”

Hannibal smiles bemusedly, lets his fingers trail over Will’s temple as he moves his hand away.

“Yes,” he replies, “always.”

Will smiles, a sleepy kind of pull at his mouth.

“Now go to bed,” Hannibal says firmly.

He watches as Will nods and toddles away, the ends of the blanket dragging behind him.

-x-

Hannibal brings the soup upstairs, set on a tray with a glass of orange juice, freshly squeezed.

Will is beneath the covers, shivering demonstrably.

“’m cold,” he says pitifully.

Hannibal sets the tray on the bedside table, “I will fetch you another blanket.”

Will grabs his wrist before he can move. “Or you could keep me warm.”

“I could,” he says calmly, “but that would be counterintuitive.”

Will’s fingers are stroking his pulse. Hannibal forces it to keep its measure.

“Counterintuitive?” Will asks. His tone is positively coquettish.

Hannibal regulates his breathing with Herculean effort. “Yes,” he replies, “I would only cause you to perspire.”

“You mean,” a single index finger is sliding up the length of Hannibal’s forearm. Will’s eyes are heavy-lidded. “You’d make me sweat?”

Hannibal swallows once. “I believe I would.”

Will makes a pleasing sound beneath the blanket. “You’d like to make me sweat, wouldn’t you?” His mouth stays parted at the end of his question, pink and damp and inviting.

With a shake of his head and a laugh that betrays no mirth, Hannibal pulls free.

Will drags himself to sit upright in bed, regarding Hannibal with a curious heat.

“What?” Will asks.

Hannibal busies himself selecting a blanket of adequate thickness.

“I find it amusing that you save all this flirtation for when you are ill and we can do nothing about it.”

He throws the blanket over Will’s lap, leaning just close enough so that for a moment Will is caged between his forearms. Their eyes meet. Will’s fingers tease tip-toeing across the back of Hannibal’s hand.

“Who says we can’t do anything about it?”

Hannibal fixes his eyes on a spot of headboard behind Will’s head. He can’t see the fingerprints that are burnt into his flesh but he can certainly feel them.

“I say,” Hannibal says, but his voice sounds like it’s been dragged through briars.

“Do you?”

Neither of them have moved. Their mouths, Hannibal realizes, are distractingly close. Will licks his lips. Hannibal mirrors the motion. He can feel Will’s fevered breath against his face.

Just an inch, and a kiss would be his.

Hannibal pulls back.

“Party pooper,” Will pouts.

Hannibal can’t help but laugh. “I’ve expected many insults from you, Will, but that was never one of them.”

He reaches behind Will’s head and fluffs his pillow, punching it a little too forcefully in a misguided effort to quell his arousal.

“Careful,” Will says with a laugh, “I do need that.

Hannibal sets the pillow back behind Will’s head and the tips of his fingers brush over his neck. The heat he radiates is intoxicating. Will presses into the touch.

“Mmm,” he hums happily, “I like when you touch me.”

“And I like touching you.”

It’s one of the most honest things he’s ever said, and if he were a lesser man Hannibal would flush from it.

“Perhaps,” he ventures softly, “we could have this conversation again when you are well.”

Will’s eyes close as Hannibal begins to massage his neck. “I’d like that,” he slurs.

“Good,” Hannibal says, “because if there is an ounce of seriousness behind your addled flirtations,” he bows low, mouth at Will’s temple, “I will fuck you so hard you’ll be bedridden for a week.”

Will’s eyes snap open and he turns his head with a jerk. Hannibal is there, waiting. His eyes are darkened with promise.

“Get well soon, Will.”

And then the tight heat between them is little more than a ghost, Hannibal fastidiously setting the tray at Will’s lap with a genial smile. He arranges the blanket just so and turns on his heel.

Before he crosses the doorway back into the house, he pauses, back turned. He can hear Will panting. Hannibal’s smile widens unseen.

“Enjoy your soup.”


	7. Strikhedonia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strikhedonia: The pleasure of being able to say “to hell with it”.

A faint hint of cedar and orange winds its way through the air. Footsteps echo from the landing above and Hannibal inhales deeply.

“Feeling better?”

Will descends the stairs with a spring in his step, colour back in his cheeks.

“I guess you really can smell anything.”

Hannibal shrugs, looks idly down at his tablet. “Mostly I can smell a fresh shower and clean clothes.”

Will laughs lightly, “Yeah,” he says, “thanks for taking care of me. I know I was kind of out of it.”

He perches himself on the edge of the couch, casually glancing over the article Hannibal is reading.

“I said thank you.” Will nudges him, just a brief touch, hip to shoulder and gone again.

“Oh,” Hannibal sets the tablet on the coffee table. “You’re welcome, Will. It was my pleasure.”

Will’s grin is close to impish. “I bet it was.”

“Hmm?”

Will nudges Hannibal again, lets the contact points stay connected for a few seconds longer.

“I seem to recall you saying something about fucking me until I can’t walk again.”

Hannibal chuckles, tries not to make it sound as forced as it feels.

“I suppose I did,” he acknowledges drily, “your fever made you oddly… flirtatious.”

Will purses his lips. “Oddly?” His brow wrinkles in the beginnings of a frown.

“Yes,” Hannibal replies, “it was quite unlike you. I’m surprised you remembered our conversation at all, you were quite delirious. It seemed rather amusing to tease you a little, but I suppose it was impetuous of me to indulge.”

He keeps his town light and lofty. Will just stares at him, his expression unreadable.

“Right,” he says. His frown deepens before smoothing itself out. Then he stands and leaves the sitting room without another word.

Later that afternoon, Hannibal busies himself preparing the evening meal. Will comes in from his run silently, not so much as a hello, and heads straight upstairs to the shower. Fifteen minute later, he trots downstairs and makes a beeline for the kitchen.

“What else can you smell?”

Hannibal looks up from the fruit he’s cutting into slices. “Pardon?”

“Can you smell love?”

Hannibal sets his knife down on the cutting board, keeps his eyes fixed on the grain, on the spirals of kiwi slices and their wet green flesh. Will is silent and expectant. Hannibal wipes a hand dry on the side of his apron.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” he says quietly.

“Say that someone was in love,” Will begins, “say that this person – let’s just assume he’s a man – was in love with, oh, I don’t know, a cannibal.”

Hannibal goes very still. He can hear his own heartbeat thudding against his ribs.

“And I mean an actual cannibal,” Will says, “and the man knows this, but he loves him anyway. Say this cannibal has done his royal fucking best to ruin the man’s life, to destroy everything he cares about. He’s thrown him in prison, gutted him, cut his head open, tried to kill his family, and still, somehow, the man loves him.”

Hannibal lets out a tiny breath and the whole world trembles. Will steps toward him. The vast kitchen island between them suddenly shrinks to the head of a pin.

“Say that this man has resolutely _refused_ to be in love with the cannibal. He’s denied it and forced his feelings away. Hidden them deep in the attic of his own brain. He’s moved on with his life, convinced himself he’s normal, tried to forget it all, except then what happens? Well like a fucking idiot, he lets the cannibal back into his life, practically opens the door for him, and wouldn’t you know it? They murder someone together. It’s savage and awful, they tear him to pieces, leave him bleeding out on the ground… and it’s the most beautiful thing this man has ever done. Better than sex. Well,” for a split second their eyes catch and spark, “better than any sex he’s had so far.”

The air is buzzing with electricity. Will is turning the corner of the island, dangerously, terrifyingly close.

“That moment is the most exquisite thing he’s ever experienced.” Will’s voice is low and hot, the inevitable roll of molten lava as it slowly consumes. “And the man decides that he can’t live with knowing that, knowing who he is and who he loves, and so he throws himself off a cliff and takes the cannibal with him.”

Will reaches out, across inches and infinite years. He touches Hannibal’s hand, gently.

“ _But they live_.”

His thumb strokes Hannibal’s knuckles. He is so warm. Neither of them can look at each other.

“They live,” Will continues, “the man and his cannibal live. And after recovering from some truly nasty injuries and the fucking ‘ _flu_ – which the cannibal nursed him through, because of course he did – the man decides that maybe he doesn’t want to fight it anymore. Maybe if he survived prison, and the gutting, and the dive, and the _years_ of refusing to see his own reflection, maybe he’s supposed to love the cannibal after all. And maybe the cannibal might let him.”

Finally, he looks up. Their eyes meet. Will’s eyes are oceans and Hannibal is instantly drowning.

“So the man decides to hell with it. He’s just exhausted. He’s spent so much of his life miserable and hiding, and if being happy means being in love with a serial killer, then _fine_. It’s too much work not to be.”

Will’s fingers are now linked with his and his voice is trembling. “Should I ask again?”

“Ask -?”

Oh.

_Can you smell love?_

Hannibal breathes in. It smells like cedar and orange rind and whiskey and healed wounds and his whole universe distilled into the singular form that is -

“Will.” Hannibal knows he is crying, he knows it. He can’t quite bring himself to care.

“I’m tired, Hannibal,” Will says quietly, “I’m so fucking tired. The games and the pretense and the bullshit and,” he sighs deeply, “can we just… be? I want you. Will you let me have you?”

He leans in, presses their foreheads together. They are both shaking. “Because there’s nothing else left to hide behind.”

Hannibal has a thousand florid answers on his tongue, they all drip with eloquence. He has composed sonnets and odes and arias in seven different languages in preparation for this moment, should it ever come. He could pick any one of them now. He could.

He doesn’t. Instead, he closes up the distance between them and kisses Will Graham the way he’s always wanted to.

Will bends into the kiss instantly, a desperate moan hitching out of him. One arm wraps around Hannibal’s shoulders, cupping the back of his neck and pulling them tight together. His other hand slips between them, palm pressed over Hannibal’s heart. Will shudders, taking great heaving breaths when he can and diving into the kiss with lips that seek to know every part of him. He bites Hannibal’s lip hard enough to leave behind sharp marks with his teeth. He chases after them with his tongue, soothing at the swollen flesh and licking his way into Hannibal’s mouth. Hannibal clutches Will’s waist with bruising fingers, his thumbs digging into the crease of his hipbones.

They can’t stop kissing, breathless and panting like teenagers and too blissed-out to care. Hannibal’s mouth makes its way to the hollow of Will’s throat, sucking worship there as Will reclines his head gently back. Hannibal cradles him, his whole hand cupping the back of his head and drinking him up. Will’s fingers are in his hair and he recites Hannibal’s name over and over like a prayer.

“You,” Hannibal says, his voice rumbling in his chest. The vibration carries through them and Will writhes against him.

Hannibal kisses his neck, open-mouthed, licks a warm path through salt and fresh sweat.

“You,” he says again.

“Mmnn – wha?” Will’s eyelids are drooping and heavy, he is entirely pliant and loose in Hannibal’s arms. With a swell of pride, Hannibal realizes he’s never looked so happy. Judging by the way Will is gazing him it probably goes both ways.

Hannibal pulls him upright, brushes a kiss over his forehead.

“Love,” he purrs, “smells like you.”

Will gives a watery hiccoughing laugh.

“I can’t believe _that’s_ the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.” He smacks Hannibal’s chest fondly. “You fucking cannibal cheeseball.”

Hannibal makes a disgruntled sound but Will kisses it swiftly away. He loops his arms around Hannibal’s neck, positively giddy.

“Come on, cheeseball.” He hoists himself up onto the kitchen counter, hooking his legs behind Hannibal’s thighs.

“I believe someone has to make good on a promise to fuck me until I could no longer walk.” Will squeezes for emphasis. “Still got two working legs here.”

In one flash of movement, Hannibal has him up and in his arms and moving. Will’s legs tighten around his waist and Hannibal leaps up the stairs two at a time. He crosses the landing, kicking open the nearest bedroom door and throwing Will to the bed. Will laughs, delighted and free.

“The original promise was that I would leave you bedridden for a week,” Hannibal growls. He pounces atop him, hands already working buttons free. “I challenge you to do the same.”

Will turns his head to the side and takes an exaggerated sniff of Hannibal’s neck. Hannibal smiles.

“And what do I smell like, Will?”

Will cups Hannibal’s face in his hands, nudges their noses together.

“You know.”

Hannibal’s eyes crinkle. “I do. Tell me anyway.”

His palms are already skidding over Will’s bare chest as he arches beneath him, sighing with the fullness of his pleasure.

“Love,” Will says. His eyes glitter with joy. “You smell like love.”


	8. Cataglottism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cataglottism - Kissing with tongue.

"I wonder if I could make you come just like this.”

The room is silent and scented musky-sweet. There is no air between them. Hannibal’s lips are brushing over his, the sweat from their brows smearing together. Both breathe in ragged gasps, panting hot over each other’s faces.

Will’s arms are twined tight around Hannibal’s neck, one hand slipped through to grab a fistful of his hair. His thighs are pushed and held open to the point of burning, Hannibal nestled between them. Their chests press together flushed and slick.

Slowly, Hannibal kisses him. Gentle, chaste, a capture of Will’s mouth followed by a quick release, the briefest dotage of affection. Will cranes up for more and is denied. He tries to ask for more but his voice has been robbed from him.

Hannibal has spent the past hour driving him close to madness, working him open with agile fingers and a clever tongue, stretching him and molding him and pulling pleading cries from him with tireless rubbing and licking.

Now, he hovers at Will’s entrance, poised and ready. On the occasional hitched breath or twitching muscle, he grazes just slightly.

Will bites his lip and shudders. He’s past asking nicely, he’s past pleading, he’s past doing anything at all except trembling and waiting.

Torturously waiting.

Hannibal rolls his hips and pushes just a bit. Not enough to grant entry, but enough to leave a trace of clear fluid behind, marking his territory. Will aches, his throat rasped free of anything but guttural moans.

Hannibal kisses him again, swift, loving. Will writhes upward, seeking more contact, trying to open his mouth, but Hannibal turns his head, smudging the last of the kiss over Will’s cheek and jaw. Will’s fingers spasm in his hair.

“H..Ha…” is all he can get out before Hannibal grazes a sweet kiss over his lips, mouth still closed. He cups Will’s jaw in his palm and holds him down, sucks briefly on his lower lip and lets go with a wet sound that echoes in the stillness surrounding them.

Will’s eyes are leaking tears. Hannibal follows their path, leans down, and licks them away. He thrusts down, barely an inch, just catching at the tender ring of muscle, then retreats.

Will is now freely shaking, mouth open, eyes seeking blindly above him. Hannibal crosses into his field of vision, pinning him with his lust-black gaze.

“Do you know,” Hannibal’s voice is shrapnel and gravel, twisting and sticking into sensitive parts of him, “I have never been so aroused in my life.”

He submits the evidence with another roll of his hips, there and gone. Will wraps his legs around Hannibal’s waist, squeezes tight, trying desperately to draw him in. Hannibal just tuts and wraps one strong hand around Will’s thigh, holding him still.

“I will only get to enter you for the first time _once_ in my life,” Hannibal murmurs, “you will allow me to savour the moment.”

Then he kisses him again, lingering a little longer. Will whines, a reedy little sound, and Hannibal smiles into his mouth, shaking his head. Will darts his tongue out to lick at the swell of Hannibal’s upper lip, just barely catches it before Hannibal pulls away once more.

Everything is heat and sweat. His cock is caught heavy and thick between them, leaking freely with every shift of movement from the man above him. He could come, just like this, just like Hannibal said, if only -

“Kiss me.” It’s a miracle that words come out. As it is, they are warped and slurred together, barely even two syllables, but Hannibal catches the meaning immediately.

“Is that what you want?” Hannibal asks, his mouth hovering over the shell of Will’s ear. He nips it so lightly it is barely felt. He turns to meet Will’s eyes, their noses nudging together, his hand still stroking Will’s face.

“Is that all you want?”

He punctuates his question with another lazy thrust, so close this time that he almost enters.

Shaken, fevered with want and near-inconsolable, Will just nods. He will take anything at all, any shred of what Hannibal will give him, just to be freed from this purgatory of anticipation.

Hannibal bows his head as if in prayer, bestows a kiss to each of Will’s cheeks.

“Very well,” he purrs, “my love.”

And then both hands are upon Will’s face and he is kissing him so breathless that the room is spinning around them. Will moans low, feral, clinging to Hannibal with every limb and opening pliant beneath him as Hannibal’s tongue slips into his mouth.

The moment their tongues touch together, Will comes.

Violently, his entire body arching as Hannibal clutches him tight, stroking and licking into his mouth with fierce demand. Will kisses him back, sloppy and desperate, spilling messy streaks between them. Hannibal keeps his grip, sucking on Will’s tongue, biting sharply on his lower lip, savagely claiming every inch of his mouth that he can. Will mouth stays open, a continuous pained noise of relief echoing from him and into Hannibal. Hannibal eats it up.

Slowly, Will returns to himself, still fogged in a euphoria-drenched haze. Hannibal retreats from his kisses, staring deep into his eyes. Even though Will has just come, Hannibal is the one who looks wrecked.

“What you,” Hannibal is shaking and Will realizes with a jolt that he still isn’t inside him, “what you do to me.”

He lowers himself so that every available inch of skin is pressed together, seam to seam, and Will holds him in his arms like something precious and rare. Hannibal steals another kiss and Will surrenders it up gladly.

“I will remember this until the day I die,” Hannibal says, so reverent that Will feels like a God receiving sacrifice. Hannibal kneels at his altar in supplication.

Tears spring to Hannibal’s eyes and Will frees a hand to brush them away. Hannibal catches his wrist, stamping a kiss over his pulse before looping Will’s arm back around his neck.

“Are you ready? Hannibal asks quietly, then, “may I?”

A delicious shiver ripples through Will’s entire body.

“Yes,” he declares, and that is the last word he is able to speak, because finally, _finally_ , Hannibal is entering him. One sure, smooth thrust and he is _there_ , and they both make a strangled noise that is relief and awe and fear mingled as one.

Hannibal is panting hotly into his ear, choking on disbelief, unable to move. With sudden force he yanks Will’s head to the side and begins kissing him with fervent adoration. The words he has been robbed of spring voiceless between them, every wet slant of their mouths another vow.

When he moves, it is slow and achingly reverent. Each long slide filling him completely, each retreat leaving him bereft. It takes little time for Will to become aroused again, and before long he is hard and flushed between them. Hannibal sighs over his temple, luxuriating in how completely Will Graham is overwhelming his senses.

Hannibal comes silently, eyes wide and fixated on Will’s, flooded with abject wonder. He mouths his name and tears spill as he thrusts to the hilt, Will’s ankles locked around his calves and holding him inside. The sensation tears Will’s second orgasm from him before he can think twice. His entire body tightens, every muscle gone rigid with his release, and then he drops to the sheets, dazed and pliant.

They come down as one, meeting for more kisses, lazy and wet. Hannibal pets down Will’s flank and Will’s legs drift apart, boneless. They splay together sated, chests heaving. Hannibal withdraws himself to kiss and lick Will’s spendings from his stomach. Will just laughs, combing fingers through Hannibal’s sweat-damp hair.

Hannibal murmurs something into his skin as he continues his trail of hot kisses. Will is pretty sure he knows what he heard, but he doesn’t acknowledge or reciprocate the words. It’s not their way.

What he does say is, “that was beautiful.”

Hannibal smiles against his hip in answer.


	9. Quidnunc

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quidnunc - One who always has to know what is going on.

The silk falls across his eyes, twisting in a soft rasp around his wrists. Soft pliable foam is pressed into his ears. Two fingers rub at the swell of his lower lip.

Already his mouth is open, panting.

“Hannibal,” Will says. He can’t hear him.

He writhes under his restraints, neck straining in a beautiful line, seeking touch, contact, the press of Will’s skin to his own. Will watches.

He lies one warm palm over Hannibal’s flank. Hannibal rises from the bed like a drawn bow.

“Darling,” Will says with a pleased and sultry smile. “Feel me.”

He crawls onto the bed, kneeling beside him. Hannibal turns his head towards the dip in weight, tongue licking at his lips.

“Will,” he gasps, then swallows hard, “please.”

Swinging one bare leg across the bed, Will straddles him. The grain of his denim rubs coarsely against the sensitive skin of Hannibal’s thighs, and he moans.

“You’re clothed,” Hannibal says incredulously.

Will nods, bows low so their bare chests touch lightly together. Enough for Hannibal to feel that he’s not completely covered, not entirely. Hannibal snaps with his jaws, tries to catch Will’s ear between his teeth. Will’s mouth parts and paints a smile over Hannibal’s throat.

“Naughty,” he whispers.

“Can you hear me this close?” Will asks, sucking Hannibal’s pulse. The silk blindfold crumples a little under Hannibal’s frown.

“You - you said something.” Fine beads of sweat gather at his brow.

Will pops out one of the earplugs quickly, his mouth hot and damp at Hannibal’s ear.

“No more talking,” he instructs, slips the plug back in, and kisses him.

It is deep, and wet, and devouring. Will’s tongue slides with ease over Hannibal’s, licking and massaging, exploring the softness inside his mouth. Hannibal is entirely taut, the lithe muscles of his shoulders and biceps outlined harshly as he pulls at his bindings. Will just keeps kissing him, a hand cupping his throat, warm enough to promise but not hard enough to threaten.

Not yet.

His other hand slips lower, teasing at the wiry tufts of hair sprinkled across Hannibal’s chest. He tugs a little, watching Hannibal wince, then moves to a peaked nipple. He rubs it with the heel of his palm, just a dance of a touch, then moves on.

His fingers wind slowly downwards through the trail of hair that leads to Hannibal’s earnest and desperate erection. Hard and pleading and angry, weeping already from the merciless treatment being inflicted upon him. Will hovers his hand at the base, close enough for Hannibal to feel the heat radiating from his skin.

He breaks from the kiss, licking Hannibal’s upper lip, enclosing it in his teeth before sitting up, surveying his prize.

“You love being in control,” he says quietly, “how does it feel to have none of it?”

Slowly, Will unbuttons the fly of his jeans, shoving his hand into the bunched fabric of his boxers and pulling himself free. Hannibal’s nostrils flare instantly and Will nods approvingly.

“Good boy,” Will says, and climbs up Hannibal’s body, feeding his cock into his mouth.

Hannibal slurps him down without reservation, spittle falling from the corners of his lips uncaring. He sucks as much as he can, swallowing Will as far as the angle allows. Will groans thickly, fisting a hand in Hannibal’s hair.

“ _Yes_ ,” he grits out, “ _take it_.”

Hannibal is feverishly focused, mouth full as obscene slick noises echo from his throat. There is no finesse to it, but the raw, animalistic nature sends shards of arousal stabbing into Will’s gut. He loosens one hand from Hannibal’s hair and moves to trace the line of his scar. It feels like a livewire, everything sticky electric as Hannibal consumes him.

His hips stutter and he bites down on the tip of his tongue, sticking out from his mouth as he pants.

“More,” he pleads, “’m gonna–”

And then he does, messy and wild, down Hannibal’s throat, across his cheeks as it leaks out. Hannibal licks up every drop that he can, desperate guttural grunts only serving to accentuate his mad pleasure.

Falling back with a shudder, Will braces himself over Hannibal’s chest, examining his handwork. Tears have soaked through the blindfold, his restraints are ripping at the seams, and he is flushed scarlet across his chest. His breath comes out in harsh, quick pants, mouth wet and dotted with the last traces of Will’s release.

“I think,” Will purrs, “that if I touched you now, you’d come.”

He scoots back a little further, turning over his shoulder to see the evidence, angry and near-purple.

“Would you?” he asks. “Would you come for me so easy?”

His fingers dance backward and Hannibal stops breathing.

“Will,” he begs, “ _Will._ ”

Will’s smile is darker than any Hannibal has seen. He wants him to see it. In one swift and violent motion he tears the blindfold from Hannibal’s eyes with his left hand. With his right hand he grasps Hannibal fully, squeezing just a hair shy of painful.

Hannibal comes, a wracked half-sob half-scream torn from him, hips jutting sharply from the bed. Will rides him through it, eyes boring in his.

“There,” Will says, his free hand now laid firm over Hannibal’s chest. Hannibal’s mouth just hangs open in shock, eyes wet and broken.

Will bends to kiss him as the last rope of come trickles down his hand. Their lips touch soft and light and Hannibal twitches beneath him. Will pulls out each ear plug, unties the silk from his wrists, and watches as he flops boneless to the bed.

“What a good boy you are.”

Hannibal smiles weakly, eyes drifting close, mouth held in promise around the shape of Will’s name.


	10. Tarantism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tarantism - the urge to overcome melancholy by dancing.

“You’re staring again.”  
  
Will curls his fingers over his jaw, chin seated in his palm. He blinks once.  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
Hannibal nudges gently at his elbow from across the table.  
  
“Your coffee will grow cold.”  
  
Will looks down at his mug, at the conspicuous absence of steam rising from its contents.  
  
“Oh, right. Sorry,” he says, flicks his eyes back to the window.  
  
Outside it is grey, a little bitter. Pine trees shift uneasily under the growing wind. Besides trees and sky, there’s not much to be seen for miles.  
  
They are entirely alone.  
  
Hannibal slides Will’s mug out from under him.  
  
“I’ll heat this up for you,” he offers.  
  
Will catches his hand, rubs an apologetic thumb over his wrist.  
  
“No,” he replies, “it’s fine. I’m just…”  
  
He’s not sure how to complete the sentence without hurting, and they’ve worked so hard these past six weeks to pluck those thorns from their paws. He rolls his jaw under his hand, chews the inside of his mouth.  
  
Hannibal watches him, glacially patient. Will sighs in frustration, drops his elbow, adding another hand atop Hannibal’s and squeezing affectionately.  
  
“It’s not you,” he says, and means it.  
  
Hannibal nods. “I know.” He says it with a little too much confidence, the uncertainty beneath it pressing just under his skin. Will tucks an index finger under Hannibal’s, looping them together.  
  
“Six weeks,” Will sighs, “six weeks of healing and - _healing_ , and it’s been good, it has, but I miss - I miss -”  
  
_\- my dogs, my house, my boat, my family, **no** , __being able to think I could have a family, my old work boots, going to the grocery store, drinking whiskey on my porch, eating bad Chinese food with plastic forks, the smell of my shampoo, the sound of a phone ringing, gathering the firewood, pretending I didn’t know what it was like to kill a man -_  
__  
_“_ I miss not being seen,” he admits, and bites his lip when he feels Hannibal’s fingers grow cold under his.  
  
Hannibal tilts his head. “It would seem, then, that it i _s_ me. Since I am the only one who sees you.”  
  
He pulls himself free, stands from the table, gathers Will’s mug.  
  
“I had thought that clarity would bring you peace,” he says quietly.  
  
“That’s just it,” Will replies. He follows Hannibal to the kitchen, touches his back, lets his palm rest there as an anchor. “It did, and I wouldn’t change that now, but there was a… a certain comfort in hiding.”  
  
He steps into Hannibal’s space, pressing his cheek alongside his palm.  
  
“I miss the stupid things that distracted me from being… _this_.”  
  
Hannibal rests his hands against the kitchen counter, very still.  
  
“What, exactly, is _this_?”  
  
Will rubs his face against the cloth of Hannibal’s shirt, says very quietly, “what I’m supposed to be.”  
  
Hannibal turns beneath his touch, sets a hand to Will’s shoulder, cups a hand under his jaw. “You have shed your skin, and now you wait for the burn to pass as a new one grows. Trust that I will see you through it.”  
  
“I do,” Will whispers, and it’s as much of a marriage vow as the ones they made on the cliff. Hannibal kisses him, very soft, lips lingering against his. Will doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of the way Hannibal kisses, like he might melt away under his mouth and so he must savour every cell of him before he disappears.  
  
“Would you take it back?” Hannibal asks. The words bleed hot over his skin.  
  
Will slips his tongue between the parted swell of Hannibal’s lips. He tastes like something he knows he should regret, like the first piece of Turkish Delight popped into an unsuspecting mouth. He can’t bring himself to do anything but crave more of it.  
  
When their mouths break apart for breath, he grips at the collar of Hannibal’s shirt.  
  
“No,” he says, and means it, “never.”  
  
Hannibal’s hands are at his waist, fluttering and plucking lightly where Will’s own shirt tucks into his jeans.  
  
“Slow down, baby,” Will murmurs sweetly, “it’s only been an hour.”  
  
Hannibal sniffs his neck, growls in that way he knows makes Will shiver.  
  
“I wanted more of you after five minutes, Will. I wanted more of you before we finished.”  
  
Will moans quietly, presses their bodies a little closer.  
  
They sway together in the kitchen, the dim morning light slanting at sharp angles into the kitchen. Will’s feet shuffle under him. He looks up.  
  
“Dance with me first.”  
  
Hannibal laughs, the vibrato of it a pleasing rumble. “What?”  
  
Will snakes his hand around Hannibal’s neck, teasing with the ends of his shaggy hair.  
  
“Dance with me,” Will repeats, voice warm and fond, “it’ll make me feel better.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
Will shrugs. “I have no idea,” he admits, “but I want you to anyway.”  
  
Will nudges their noses together knowingly. As if he could ever refuse. Hannibal’s brow creases in bemusement but there is a smile tucked in the corners of his eyes, a smile that only Will has learned how to see.  
  
He kisses the tip of Will’s nose, moves a hand to the small of his back.  
  
“Very well,” he says, drawing his right hand up and taking Will’s left, folding them together. He pulls his back straight, looks down at him with a feigned haughty countenance.  
  
“Put your right hand at my shoulder.”  
  
Will obeys. Hannibal winks. And then he starts waltzing.

He sweeps Will in grand circles around the cabin, feet light as air. Will stumbles at first, mouth open in protest.  
  
“Hey,” he sputters, “I didn’t say you could lead!”  
  
“You asked me to dance with you,” Hannibal arches a brow, “what did you expect?”  
  
He turns Will gracefully under his arm, and despite his flushed cheeks Will lets himself laugh.  
  
“Christ, I love you.”  
  
It’s not the first time he’s said it, certainly not the last, but he catches the shine in Hannibal’s eyes every time the words spill out. He blinks wetly, makes a little humming sound.  
  
Will squeezes where their hands are joined, knows that Hannibal’s silence is as much of a reciprocation as anything that could be said aloud.  
  
They keep waltzing.

**Author's Note:**

> [come tumble with me](http://lovecrimevariations.tumblr.com)


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